


Cruor Gelidus

by Hambone



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Armor, Bad end, Blood and Gore, Canonical Character Death, Hollowing, M/M, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 14:05:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15753225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: The Chosen Undead speaks to Oscar but decides to end the conversation differently





	Cruor Gelidus

**Author's Note:**

> This one feels all over the place but it was fun none the less. I needed to bully him. Dedicated to Sug, who helped me reconsider my years-old experience with the game. 
> 
> Enjoy!

    Oscar heard the man before he saw him. His vision was not quite yet fading, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open. He needed his strength, to tell him, and it was so hard to steady himself there, in the moment. Whole.

    “Oh, you,” he said, though he hadn’t been expecting anyone else. There were others here, surely, but none roaming free. If there were, they would have met the same fate he had by now. Still, the feeling of another presence, almost fully alive, was a comfort.

    “You’re no Hollow,” he sighed, despite their being no need to state this, still muddled, “Ah, thank goodness.”

    The man shifted amongst the rubble, approaching slowly. Oscar was not sure how much of a mess he looked. He hoped it wouldn’t scare away this one, the one he had chosen to follow on. There was nothing more he could do. He peered through the visor of his helmet at the man, but his face was just out of sight. The sunlight trickling in through the hole in the ceiling felt almost blinding, but it was good to know he would not Hollow in the darkness.

    “I’m done for, I’m afraid. I’ll die soon, then,” he breathed out slowly, “lose my sanity.” He had to impress the importance of what he had to say, but it was hard to speak through the heat in his mouth. It was blood. He’d died enough times to know that. It tasted different this time, though, acrid, like bile, and something darker he was all too familiar with.

    “You and I, we’re both Undead. Hear me out, will you?”

    That was meaningful, the thing they shared, though the other man likely didn’t know it. The man seemed to waver a bit, and then nodded, silent. Oscar wished he could see his eyes.

    “Regrettably, I have failed in my mission,” the mission, his only purpose, “but perhaps you can keep the torch lit.”

    The man stood, still as death.

    “There is an old saying in my family,” Oscar began, feeling his lungs grow cold as he tried to draw enough breath to speak properly, “Thou who art Undead art chosen. In thine exodus from the Undead Asylum, maketh pilgrimage to the land of Ancient Lords. When thou ringeth the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the Undead thou shalt know.”

    It was easy to recall the saying; he had lived it every day in his heart since he was a child. It gave everything meaning. He hoped he had spoken the words with enough gravity to let the man who would, Gods willing, take up the mantle, know their true meaning. He prayed.

    There was no response, however. The man, and a man he was, not a Hollow, even in his silence, seemed to loom just out of the path of light, breathing heavily. It was strange, to see an Undead breathe like this. They still did, in some parody of life, just as they could chose to eat or drink again, but it was no necessity and didn’t bring the pleasure it did in life. This man, however, seemed strangely aggravated, perhaps even excited. Had his story so moved him?

    “Well, now you know… and I can die with hope in my heart.”

    Oscar let his body sag where it sat, no longer needing to hold himself steady. He could be at peace here, now, and enjoy what humanity he had left. But, no, there was one more thing he had to give before all was lost.

    “Oh, one more thing,” he sighed, eyelids fluttering as he struggled to remain upright, “Here, take this.”

    He dug into his satchel for a moment, barely able to feel his fingertips, before producing the keys the man would need. His arm no longer had the strength to reach out, and as it began to fall the chosen man stepped forwards suddenly and caught Oscar’s hand between his own. There was such warmth in his hands. It made the dying flame in his heart rise a little, likely for the last time.

    “You are a Godsend, to come at this moment,” he whispered. One of the man’s hands curled around the keys, taking them back to pocket, but the other stayed, clasping his wrist firmly. Did he wish to grant Oscar company as he faded away? It was not wise, but it was kind.

    “Now I must bid farewell.”

    He tried to take his arm back, but the man did not let him go. As it was, he likely could not exert more force than a child.

    “I would hate to harm you after death,” he insisted, wetting his lips with his bloodied tongue, “so go now.”

    The man did not. Oscar had managed to drag himself to an almost proper sitting position, when he had first fallen, before the adrenaline faded and the softness of his insides became clear. As he had waited for death his limbs had seemed to harden, like stone, until he was sure he wouldn’t move himself from this spot ever again. His armor, once like a second skin, was now his tomb, too heavy to shift or shed, and he had sat with one knee raised, an arm resting upon it, looking almost natural. The illusion of statuesque immovability was ruined when the man moved in, picking over the rubble, still holding Oscar’s wrist, and used a knee to shift his thighs slightly more apart. Oscar’s leg straightened, dropping heavily, like a doll’s, his arm falling useless at his side. He could see the man more clearly now that he was close, but it revealed nothing, the space behind his mask an opaque darkness. He brought Oscar’s hand higher, seeming to inspect it.

    “You must go,” said Oscar, not understanding. Every breath hurt. His own ribs felt as though they were crushing him, curled in on his delicate organs like a vice, eating him from the inside out. He wanted to slip away in peace, but the man held kept him trap. He would not Hollow now, not when this man was so important to him.

    The man, without dropping Oscar’s arm, reached back to his hip and unsheathed a small blade. Oscar’s head lolled to the side, watching. For the first time, he truly felt how tightly the man was holding his hand.

    “Please,” he urged again, knowing not what else he could do. He could only hold himself back for so much longer.

    Instead of heeding his warning, the man crouched down, until they were almost helm to helm, face to face. Oscar still could see no hint of humanity behind the visor of his chosen one. The man, with decisive purpose, lowered the blade between Oscar’s legs. Oscar couldn’t raise his head to see what was being done, but an old fear beat in his gut, what was left of it. Below the skirt of his chainmail there was only his breeches. He could feel the pressure of the blade’s flat edge tracing along his inner thigh. He had no strength to pull away.

    “I don’t…” he couldn’t breathe deeply enough to finish speaking now. Still silent, the man turned the blade inward and, with great care, sliced the fabric from Oscar’s leg. Oscar didn’t have to see to know the man was exposing him. He could feel the tug as his undergarments were torn off, all while keeping his skin intact. It was pointless; he was already here, dying, humiliated. The peace he had felt burned up inside him.

    While still schooled in nature, the man’s movements became more desperate. He pushed Oscar back into the broken stone, yanking his hips forward. Oscar slid into his grasp easily, unable to fight back. He reached for the man again, trying to steady himself. He failed. The man dropped the knife and grasped the edges of the hole he’d made with both hands, ripping his breeches apart until he could see all that lay in the fork of Oscar’s legs. Though largely obscured, the under part of Oscar’s stomach was a blotchy purple, blood from the massive hemorrhaging inside him sinking down to his hips beneath his skin.

    “Stop this,” he wheezed, pushing at the rubble beneath him, trying to go back even knowing he couldn’t, “you need to leave.”

    He wasn’t speaking so much out of concern for the man now as concern for himself. He was ignored. The man ran his gloved hands down between Oscar’s legs, feeling the skin, ragged with old scars. Despite the nature of the assault, the man was gentle with him still, testing and teasing the skin Oscar could only barely feel. His gloves were rough, catching in the short hairs there as he caressed him, moving down, down, to his groin.

    Oscar’s breath hitched when the rough fabric found his limp cock. The resulting jolt in his body made him stutter in pain, and his entire body shuddered violently. Another wet cough choked his throat, but the man didn’t stop, either unsurprised by or uninterested. Oscar shrunk back into his armor, the only place he had to hide, but it did nothing. The man fondled him briefly, his other hand petting Oscar’s bloodied stomach as if to calm him. He felt like a wild animal being tranquilized for the slaughter.  

    “P-please,” he said again, spitting blood inside his helmet. He didn’t have the energy for true panic, but he knew he didn’t want this, and he knew just as well that he couldn’t fight it. Who had he entrusted the world to?

    The man readjusted him again, tugging Oscar so his body slid down the stone until he was lying more horizontally than vertically. It made the blood fill his lungs faster, and he wheezed in pain. His legs were spread, the water around their feet soaking cold where it touched. With little care the man pulled his gloves off and discarded them into the water. His now bare hands were so, so hot when they returned to Oscar’s skin, insistently nudging him to open his legs wider, tracing the muscled line of his hips. He had worked so hard to get here, honed his skill for decades of a life lived for nothing else, and yet all his bodily strength did him no good now. He had, in his own foolishness, been stripped of his destiny by his own hand. It stung, worse than the dry burn when the man twisted a rough finger between his buttocks and sought out his hole.

    But he was not wholly dry there, either. His insides really had been crushed; blood seeped from between his legs. The man used this to his advantage, pushing inside the tip of an index finger, and Oscar shuddered away, a horrified moan caught in his broken chest. Everything hurt, and the pain of what was being done to him hardly registered over the rest, but the knowledge was agonizing. Oscar had been, he had been-

    He couldn’t remember who he had been. He knew he was someone of good birth, of higher standing amongst his peers. A knight, one with real purpose, with decoration, with pride. There was something missing though, in his mind, a hole that grew and grew the more he tried to fill it. He knew he was a good man, a strong man, but he could not recall why. It was coming, the Hollowing. What was left of the muscles in his stomach surged, and he vomited gore inside his helmet, and he pressed his hands into the stone and thrashed away from the man with his last strength.

    He was nothing compared to what he had been, though, and the man simply grasped his hip with the unoccupied hand and shoved his two fingers in to the knuckle. His desperation had returned, making his movements rough and quick. Oscar gasped through blood, tried to keep hold of himself. The lack of focused pain did not take away from the wrongness of the intrusion, the way his insides were easily pulled apart by this man. He could feel every twitch of his muscle, squeezing around the man to try and force him out, but all that seemed to come was more of his crushed intestine. The man made a soft sound, a groan, and Oscar wheezed in horror.

    “No,” he breathed, “no!”

    While still stretching Oscar wide, the man fumbled with his own plate mail, pushing aside leather and chain skirts to reveal his sex, hard and wet in his own breeches. Oscar swallowed, gagged with his own flesh. He had, in life, often dreamt of this view, on friends and comrades. He had been ashamed of his desires, more so when his flesh became tainted with the mark, but still he had held flame for it. Not long before he would have joyfully welcomed a man between his legs, but not like this, never like this.

    Perhaps it was his attention that now began to make the burn inside him more obvious. He squirmed in his armor, too hot from pain and too cold from blood loss. His mind tried to leave him but the curl of those wicked fingers pulled it back again and again, the sensation like a tide in his belly, sloshing with the muck that had been his vitality.

    “Hoh,” the man breathed, the first real sound he had made. Oscar could not see his eyes still but he could feel them, gaze penetrating his most intimate places. The man’s fingers were spread open wide, holding him that way, so he could admire the pink and red pulse of Oscar’s insides around him. Even dying, his muscles fluttered, sensitive though he could not pick the sensations apart, responding though he could not respond by choice. He had bled too much to get hard, but still his cock twitched gently, the hair matted to it, black and clotted. The water from the cell floor was slowly but surely soaking through small holes in his boots, marbling with his blood and bile.

    The pause was brief; the man leaned over Oscar, dead man’s breath fogging in the cold air between them, curling through the slits of his helm like a dragon’s smoke. He pulled his own cock, hard and dark in his palm. Oscar choked and whined, his voice already gone. He could do nothing but watch as the man drew his finger away, finally, caked in red ichor, and stroked it over himself. Hypnotized, dazed, Oscar followed his movements with what keenness he could still muster, the man’s rough fingers pulling back the skin from his cockhead, stroking himself a few times. Clean, clear fluid dribbled from the tip, muddying as soon as it met with his dirty fingers. Oscar’s tongue filled his mouth.

    This time when the man moved between his legs he did not try to escape, or to fight. Though his limbs were now not much but dead weight, Oscar could not deny that he allowed his stillness. His dignity meant nothing here. Who would know, now? Who would find his body, if he left one, spread and defiled? It didn’t matter, and because of this he allowed himself, despite the horror, to admit that, in some sick, foul way, his assault at least satisfied a lifelong curiosity.

    Bracing against his thighs, the man pushed the head of his cock against Oscar. His muscles could form no resistance – the first push was easy. The man groaned loudly, head hanging low to watch how they connected, and Oscar felt a small squirm in his gut, almost like pleasure. He couldn’t quite tell where the pressure of being invaded met with the pressure of his low hanging intestine, all pooling towards the same place. The man began to pull out and his whole body shuddered in response, forcing a deep, sharp reminder of his pain through him. Oscar gagged again, a low keen gurgling in his throat. He had died so many times before, so many, but it had never hurt like this. As the man sunk back inside, shocking them both with his heat, Oscar wondered if the pain was a sign of the finality of this death.

    He prayed it was.

    “Oh, oh, oh.”

    The man was breathing loudly, moaning almost as if to himself, a quiet, one sided conversation. Holding Oscar’s buttocks, he thrust inside, and out, building his rhythm sloppily but firmly. The way the air spilled from inside him sounded almost like relief, and it occurred to Oscar that this man had likely not touched or been touched in decades, maybe longer. Even as he was bent and fucked like a toy, he felt some pity. It was his own fault he was here now, after all. He had come to the Asylum, he had freed this beast, he had lost his life.

    Hiking Oscar’s legs up to his waist, the man rutted into him, pounding him so hard the clash of his armor on broken stone was deafening from the inside. The pain that had been building the more he was mishandled reached a fever, hell burning inside him before his soul had even left him. Unable to keep himself silent, Oscar cried out weakly, again and again, though his hurt was drowned by the even louder rapture of the man inside him, tearing him apart. Their coupling was wet and viscous. Oscar could feel pieces of himself slipping out. His arms were lost to him and there was nothing he could hold onto, his body nothing more to him now than a source of agony.

    Even so, between each moment of anguish came another sharp hit of pleasure. It knocked the wind from him. He couldn’t do this, he thought, he couldn’t, but he also could not escape. The man pulled him ever closer, reaming him apart, forcing the sensation into him over and over like a hammer on hot metal, changing its shape. Raw bile bubbled at the corners of Oscar’s lips, his eyes dimmed. All senses but the pain, and the faint buzz of sex, were lost to him. The man’s thick hands stroked at his thighs, and his skin burned where he was touched.

    Then, with little fanfare, the man growled lowly and came. Oscar could feel his cock pulsing inside his body, and groaned weakly. He was torn to pieces. These were the last moments of his life, as himself.

    The man held him close for a while, breathing hard, his cock shuddering, still buried within. As wild as the fuck had been, he again seemed almost gentle, touching his helm to Oscar’s breastplate, rubbing his thumbs in small circles where he held him. When he stood, he placed Oscar’s legs down carefully. Oscar heard the thick sound of their uncoupling and felt sick, watching his own blood drip from the man’s softening sex.

    Between them now was only silence. The halls echoed faintly with the cries of the Undead, as they always had. He felt as though there should be something more, some closure to what had just occurred, but the man simply buckled up and turned away. That was it then. He had been dying all along, and to this man, this man he had freed, he was nothing but a warm body. His quest was finished, perhaps never to be attempted again, and though the fault did not lie between them, the poison still remained. It had all been worthless. Ice pierced Oscar’s ruined gut, and he gathered every bit of strength his pride could award him, just briefly.

    “But,” he gasped, words wet on his tongue, “but- why?”

    He never got his answer. The man left. He was not ten steps from the door when a small soul passed through the hallway beside him.

    But, days, months, years later, when a Hollow walked in the places Oscar had once lived and died, it remembered a molten pain, and a longing, and a voice that went with it, and it hungered.


End file.
